


Long Walks In The Park

by unkissed



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Kink, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 16:45:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14919129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: Simon enjoys long walks in the park.  Baz endures them.  They enjoy doing the mundane things that boyfriends do.  They're also terribly kinky.  But because neither of them knows how to properly use their words, neither knows of the other's secret kinks... yet.(This story takes place shortly after the Epilogue.)





	Long Walks In The Park

BAZ

 

Simon Snow enjoys long walks in the park, holding hands, nicking fags straight from my lips, and other mundane things that boyfriends are wont to do.  _So fucking common_ , I know.

And what does Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch enjoy doing, you ask?  Well, isn’t that the fucking question of the century?

I like watching Snow while he sleeps, staring at him from the pillow we share.  In the blue light of the small hours is when I can _really_ watch him without worrying that my unblinking, penetrative stare will creep him out. 

I watch him in the dimness with my heightened vision, surveying every centimeter of his body.  All the expected parts are subject to my appraisal, from his copper curls falling messily on the pillow, to the soft angle of his jaw, to the conspicuous curve of his Adam’s apple, to the gentle rise and fall of his chest. 

I take _special_ care to study all of his _extraordinary_ parts when he’s sleeping.  The demonic coil of his tail, winding down his leg like a slumbering tree snake.  The leathery skin of his wings, stretched like translucent canvas between the joints and bones.  His wings are alive and vascular, with a lacelike matrix of blood vessels.

 _Fuck me…_ Those _damn_ blood vessels. 

 

Simon Snow has the most delectable, pronounced, vascular system and it isn’t fucking _right_ that I, of all creatures, ended up as his lover. When I’m roving his body with my nighttime eyes, I’m drawn to every pulsing conduit, thrumming with life.  I can fucking _smell_ the iron brine of his blood coursing along his cygnine throat, mingling with his sweat.  

But his jugular has _nothing_ on the great vein that forms a ridge along his cock when he’s hard.  _Merlin and Morgana_ , that vein is probably ninety percent of the reason why I can’t reasonably give him a blowjob without accidentally causing a bloodbath (which is why I’ve never sucked him off).  The other ten percent is the way he makes my teeth fully extend when he gets me hot.  And by _hot_ , I mean _horny_ and marginally warmer in temperature due to increased blood flow.  Because, let’s be real, I’m never really _hot_. 

 

I can’t stare at these parts of him when he’s awake.  If I allow my gaze to linger a little too long on his veins, on his tail, or _Crowley forbid_ , on his wings, he’ll get all self-conscious and pouty. It’s not cute.  I’m exhausted enough as it is, constantly explaining the intricacies of sympathy and love and hunger and desire to somebody as thick and emotionally stunted as Simon Snow.  I really don’t need to exacerbate his insecurities further by staring.

 

Alas, I digress…

Continuing on with the things that Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch enjoys…

 

Long walks in the park? Not so much.  Nature makes me itchy.  The stupidity of Normals makes my eye twitch.  Both can be found in public parks, but Snow can’t get enough fresh air and Stupid, so I humor him.  I endure those long walks in the park because I love the git, and that’s what you do when you’re arse-over-elbows for someone.  You sacrifice.  You immerse yourself in Normal spaces because your boyfriend feels unworthy of magical spaces now, despite his enormous wings and the unspoken title of Humdrum-Vanquisher on his belt.

 

Holding hands?  I’m generally cool with it.  But then there’s holding hands in public with the Normals around, who are, as previously stated, quite stupid, and are idiotic enough to scoff at two blokes showing affection.  I have to literally hold Snow back with both hands every time some arsehole throws a homophobic slur our way…

Okay, that’s a lie. Nine times out of ten, I hold him back. On the tenth time, I let him have at the offending mouth-breather.  Because, let’s face it, Simon Snow is hot as fuck when he’s beating the shit out of some bloke, his blue eyes like petrol fire and his knuckles blanched white. 

 

He’s dead sexy when he’s angry.  Maybe that’s just me being kinky.  Blood and sex and violence have always intertwined for me, ever since the day Snow broke my nose and concurrently gave me an erection with one well-aimed punch. We were fifteen.  That look on his face when he hit me was the one I saw behind my closed eyes every time I wanked in the shower thereafter.

To this day, that _look_ makes me come with his name unspoken on my tongue.  Snow makes the same face when he’s fucking me hard and viciously, when he folds me in half and props my ankles on his shoulders, and gives it to me like it’s retribution for seven years.  And it’s the same look he gives me when he’s riding my dick and about to blow his load. All rosebud cheeks and angled eyebrows and gritted teeth and, _shit_ … I get hard just thinking about it.

Let’s move on then, shall we?

 

What else does Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch enjoy?  Smoking a good hand-rolled fag… although, not really.  I mean, I do it because I like the way it keeps my fingers busy and my mouth occupied with something other than feeding upon tiny mammals. 

Snow has a habit of pinching my cigarettes after I’ve had a couple good pulls, just to remind me I’m flammable.  Then he’ll take a drag himself, smirking that dead sexy smirk of his, like he fucking knows he cheated death. 

I can’t finish an entire cigarette by myself anymore.  It’s just not good unless I’ve got Snow to share it with.  If I’m alone, I end up chucking it halfway through.

Bunce says I’m a bad influence for getting Snow hooked on nicotine.  I just have to laugh.  Developing chronic lung disease in future is the least of his worries.  Simon Snow is dating a vampire.  Simon Snow is _fucking_ a vampire. I’ve never heard Bunce bothering Snow about _that_ danger. 

 

She's all too concerned with Snow’s health.  She makes sure to pick up a box of condoms to leave in the medicine cabinet every time she nips down to the chemists.  We’ll empty the box in a matter of days.

I _know_ she’s not using them for herself, because Mister American Golden Boy Boyfriend only sees her four times a year, and she likes to rent a hotel room when he visits. 

I would appreciate the fact that she’s looking out for us, if it were not for the fact that I’ll never suffer from an STI. 

Snow insists on us using condoms _always_.  “Just because you’ll never have an outbreak of herpes doesn’t mean you can’t pick it up and spread it all over London,” he said once.  I wanted to be offended, but I played it cool. If he wants to believe I’m a wanton slut, it’s fine.  He’s never asked the right questions, so he can think whatever the fuck he wants about my sexual past. 

If he knew how to use his words, he’d know I’ve only ever been with him.

I’ve only ever fucked Simon Snow.  And Simon Snow, well… one can only assume he’d slept with Wellbelove.  But I don’t really know for sure, and I’d rather not hear about his exploits.  I never ask.

  

I wonder if Bunce is secretly casting spells on Simon’s bed to keep me from draining his blood when I spend the night…

I wonder what she thinks he and I are doing when I cast **_ignorance is bliss_** through the door.  I never bother with **_silence is golden_** , because it tends to spread across a decently sized radius and I rather enjoy listening to the abject, vulgar sounds of carnal pleasure that erupt from Snow’s filthy mouth.

  

There’s another thing that Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch enjoys…

I enjoy seducing a delicate mewl out of Simon Snow when my teeth graze the skin of his neck just bellow his ear, before I bless his throat with a wet kiss, using all of my resolve to keep from biting down.  _Mmm, baby that’s good._

I enjoy pulling a sibilant hiss from his parted lips when I curl my fingers around his hard cock and slide the pre-come-slicked foreskin over the reddened head.  _Shit, Baz…_

I enjoy squeezing wretched, mangled, wordless vowel sounds out of him when I breech his spit slicked hole. 

I enjoy inspiring a half-angry, half-desperate low growl when I push into him maddeningly slow.  _Fuuuck, Baz, just fucking FUCK ME, YEAH?_   It’s so damn adorable when he’s so flustered that he’s redundant.

I enjoy forcing breathy, rhythmic cries of agonizing bliss that rise in pitch and volume with each fervent thrust towards his imminent release.  _UGH, FUCK, YES, JUST, LIKE, THAT, DON’T, FUCKING, STOP._

I enjoy wrenching from his lips strangled litanies to the deities of the Normals, as he splatters his seed all over his heaving chest (or mine, depending on our position).   _Oh god, Jesus fucking Christ, I’m coming._  Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.  I won’t ever laugh at him for being Mister Obvious because the sight of Simon Snow unleashing his load is a beautiful thing to behold and it shuts me right the fuck up.

 

Honestly, what does Bunce think is going on in Snow’s room?

 

 

PENELOPE

 

I’ve no idea when, where, why, or how Baz and Simon manage to blow through my entire emergency stash of condoms every week.  All they ever bloody do is get take-away, binge-watch Sherlock, crush on Benedict Cumberbatch, and retire to Simon’s room for massive pillow fights. 

The next time I find an empty box in the medicine cabinet, I’m leaving a note and asking for reimbursement.

 

  

SIMON

  

Baz enjoys posh clothes, doing posh things, and making me feel stupid.

Okay, that’s not exactly fair.  Let me rephrase.

Baz likes to dress up in expensive menswear, likes to dress _me_ in expensive menswear, and likes to show us off in public. 

He’ll put us in these crisp shirts that are so fucking posh that they don’t even have buttons on the sleeves.  He has to fasten the cufflinks for me because I can’t figure out how to manage it single-handedly. 

We don’t bother with neckties unless we’re going out somewhere proper, like a fancy restaurant or the opera – I swear, he only bloody takes me to the opera to torture me. I don’t think he even likes opera. He likes the orchestra music, but honestly, I think the singing grates on his nerves.  He thinks I ought to be exposed to culture.  _Fuck_ culture.

Usually we just get kitted out in tailored Paul Smith trousers for no fucking reason, other than to walk the promenade hand-in-hand.  I like our leisurely strolls in the park.  The fresh air smells so much more pleasant now that I no longer smell the underlying charcoal dusty scent of magic. 

There’s never any pressure to talk when we’re traipsing through the park, and I like that. Simply _existing_ in the same space as Baz, without animosity and without some world-shifting problem looming over us, is bliss.  I just want to be close to him.  All. The. Fucking. Time.

That’s the fucking thing, though, yeah?  There’s _always_ something…

 

Simon Snow enjoys long walks in the park, holding hands, and being permanently attached at the hip to Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.  Those months that he was missing in our last year of Watford really did me in. Apparently, I’m one needy son-of-a-bitch when it comes to him.

It can’t be healthy – this breathless panic that wells up inside me every time I’m apart from Baz. This constant curiosity badgering my brain, making me wonder what he’s doing and where he is at any given time.  

I find myself fidgeting when he’s not around.  Penny says it’s nicotine withdrawal.  That’s bollocks.  I don’t even smoke that much.  I only smoke when Baz smokes.  I don’t even like smoking.  I just like nicking his fags because he gives me this _look_ every time I do it – like he wants to _eat me_.

 _Fuck…_ I wish he’d give me that look more often.  His dark eyes gleam and his bottom lip gets caught between his teeth, like he’s willing his fangs to stay sheathed.  And I go to fucking pieces inside.

  

Simon Snow enjoys long walks in the park, holding hands, stealing cigarettes, and being centimeters away from Death.

When we’re not going to the park or being _cultured_ , we stay in with cartons of noodles and _Benedick Cumberfuck_.  That’s what we like to call the yummy actor who plays Sherlock because we may be exposing ourselves to opera culture, but we’re still dirty little boys at heart that only watch Sherlock for the eye candy.

Before we get too sleepy, we slip into my room.  Baz spells the door so Penny is clueless about what we’re doing behind it.  And then, I prepare to get into bed with Death. 

Death doesn’t wear a hooded cloak and carry a big-arse scythe.  Death doesn’t have a skull face.  Death comes to call looking like a handsome gentleman, with raven colored hair and trousers tailored so closely that it’s almost obscene.  Death seduces you into his cold grip with a fag poised between two lithe fingers and a devilish drawl. 

 _I’ve been waiting all night to tear you apart, Snow,_ Death says, with the entitled lilt of Baz’s voice.

But you know what? Death is a bloody tease.  I should know.  I’ve been close enough to smell it and have come out with my bollocks still in tact.  The more Death teases, the closer I get, the more dangerous the game.  And, _fuck,_ do I love the game we play.  We play dress up, just so we can get _un_ dressed. 

The best part about wearing nice clothes is tearing them off, isn’t it?  I like to damn near ruin them in my haste to get Baz naked.  It’s not that I don’t appreciate nice things.  I just like how incensed Baz gets when I nearly tear his shirt sleeves when I pluck the cufflinks out.  Or when I nearly rip the carefully constructed seams of his trousers when I force them down.

 

Simon Snow enjoys long walks in the park, holding hands, pinching cigarettes, and sleeping with Death. Simon Snow also enjoys sucking vampire dick.

It sounds like something that would be scrawled on the bathroom stall in a pub.  _Simon Snow sucks vampire dick_.  It’s also not as bad as it sounds.  It’s not like I’m fond of sucking _any_ vampire’s dick.  I’m just very fond of a particular vampire’s dick.

You know you’re curious as hell, so I’m going to demystify it for you.  Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch has a massive vampire cock. I’ve no idea if it’s that massive because he’s a vampire, or if he’d be blessed with an impressive cock regardless. No matter.  It’s big.  It’s surprisingly warm, owing to all the blood it’s filled with.

Seven years as Baz’s roommate has made me a bitch for torture apparently, because I love it when I’m going down on him and he pitches his hips _just so_ to make me choke a little.  He always apologizes like the gentleman that he is, but I’m fairly sure he does it on purpose.  _Prick._

I love the bitter brine of his pre-come on my tongue, and the sting of my scalp when his fingers tug my hair.  I love meeting his lips to kiss him and making him taste his own essence in my mouth.

 

And _fuck_ , I love the electric thrill that rushes through my body when my kiss makes his fangs slide out of their glistening pink sheathes. I make sure to kiss him extra hard, pressing my tongue into those sharp tips, scraping my lips along the razor edge, before he collects himself and pulls away.

Baz is so good about never drawing my blood.  He’s _too_ good.

For once, I’d like him to just have a taste of me. I don’t think he trusts himself to not drain me dead or inadvertently turn me.

I know he wants my blood. Part of me wants to fuck it all and just let him have at me.  If I die, I die happy, and if I turn, I’m his forever. How fucking romantic is that?

On nights when he’s not with me, I wank to fantasies of teeth puncturing my neck with surgical precision.  Fantasies of my blood sliding down Baz’s throat, filling him with so much life that his skin glows pink.  Fantasies of me slowly riding his massive cock until he’s drained enough of my blood to make my movements sleepy and lazy.  Fantasies of crimson streaking down the front of my body, dripping down to my cock, making it sticky and slippery as he strokes me to a blissful End with a capital E.

In reality, Baz is the perfect picture of poise and restraint, even when he’s fucking the living hell out of me.  I don’t know how he does it – how he manages to keep himself from sinking his teeth into my throat while he’s sinking his dick into my tight arse.  We’re always in perfect position for blood sucking when I’m bottoming because my stupid wings limit the positions we can get ourselves into. So the opportunity is often staring him in the face, literally.

Of course, Baz is never going to bite me.  He’s morally opposed to feeding on humans.  Such behavior is beneath him.  He’s not a monster. 

Well… he’s not an _evil_ monster.  He’s more of a cuddly monster, like Elmo.

 

Not that we cuddle, per se. We sleep close together.  I’ll often drape my arm over him, just to make sure he doesn’t sneak away in the middle of the night.  Because I’m greedy like that.  

I’m needy like that.

Fuck nicotine, I’m addicted to Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

I think I love the bastard.

**Author's Note:**

> Guess what peeps? I wrote a follow-up! If you dare, please enjoy "Smile Like a Gash" in all it's gory glory. Be warned, it is much more explicit and super dark - not a walk in the park at all!


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